


They turned to dust (all that I adored)

by I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own



Series: Scale of a dragon, tooth of a wolf [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bard is a wizard alla Harry Potter, Bard's actually immortal in this, Dragons, Dragonslaying, Hurt/Comfort, I play around with the pensieve, Magic!AU, Memories, Oh, dragonfire, not alla actual Middle-earth Wizards, the death is Thran's wife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:02:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24888046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own/pseuds/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own
Summary: Letting go of the past is hard, but sometimes you just need a little help and a shoulder to lean on
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Thranduil, Thranduil/Thranduil's Wife
Series: Scale of a dragon, tooth of a wolf [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1800880
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	They turned to dust (all that I adored)

**Author's Note:**

> That moment where 'like watching a train wreck in slow motion' is a perfect descriptor but the character whose POV you are writing doesn't know what a train is...
> 
> Fic title from Things We Lost in the Fire by Bastille

_Time doesn’t heal emotional pain, you need to learn how to let go._   
_-Roy T Bennett_

* * *

“Tilda mentioned in her latest letter that you have some sort of memory device?” Thranduil queries, his fingers gently running through his lover’s hair.

“Anything more specific?” Bard asks, his voice muffled by the pillow he’s all but buried his face in.

“Hmm, she called it the Memory Bowl?” Thranduil says, letting his voice raise on the final word and smiles when Bard snorts.

“The Reflector.” Bard replies, grunting and pushing himself to sit up, turning to face Thranduil. “Did you have a memory you wanted to review?” the human king asks, cocking his head to the side to look at Thranduil, even as his wand falls into his hand from it’s holster within the bracelet on his wrist.

“I have many such memories.” Thranduil answers, six thousand years is a very long time to be alive, to accumulate memory after memory after memory that is all you have left of most of the people you have loved. Bard hums and swirls his wand around, so used to such displays of magic, Thranduil doesn’t jump when an elaborate but delicate looking little bowl appears before them. Thranduil almost chokes on his own saliva when he realizes the bowl is made of mithril. “Why mithril?”

“Holds the runes the best.” Bard replies, resting the bowl on the bed between them and running his fingers over several of the runes along the outside of the bowl. Thranduil still has yet to learn that runic language, but Bard has promised to teach him, eventually, they’ve got time. The triggered runes glow and a silvery liquid flows into the bowl, seemingly from nowhere, when it settles there seems to be a fog over the surface of the liquid. “I don’t assume you’ll be using other people’s Reflectors, but I’ll teach you the proper etiquette anyway.”

“There’s etiquette?” Thranduil asks, an amused smile pulling at his lips, he can’t say he’s not intrigued, however.

“We’re dealing with mind magic, Thranduil, of course there’s etiquette.” Bard answers with a snotty little sniff that makes him laugh. “You _never, never, never_ put your original memories in a Reflector. Not ever.”

“Alright?” Thranduil says, frowning at Bard’s vehemence.

“The original memory is only protected within your mind, even then it can still be tampered with by the most determined. But the moment a memory strand leaves your mind, it’s free to being manipulated by any who have the skill to do so. It’s not impossible to restore an original memory, but it is time consuming.” Bard explains, gently pressing the tip of his wand against his temple and closing his eyes. He breathes in deeply, then slowly breathes out, as he’s doing so, he slowly pulls the wand away from his temple, Thranduil stares mesmerized by the glowing strand attached to the wand’s tip. This strand Bard flicks into the bowl, where Thranduil watches it swirl and mix with the liquid.

“And now?” Thranduil queries, looking up at Bard who is watching him cautiously.

“When you touch the liquid within the Reflector, you’ll be sucked into the memory. I will go first and you can follow after me.” The human answers, before huffing a sigh. “When the memory ends, you’ll be cast out of the Reflector. However, if you decide you want to leave the memory before then, you need to will yourself out of the memory as strongly as you can.”

“Right, I understand. Anything else?”

“Nothing that’ll make sense to you on this side of the memory.” Bard answers, reaching forward and pressing his index finger into the liquid of the Reflector, Thranduil watches in awe as Bard’s body seems to warp and then be pulled within the little bowl. He swallows thickly, pulling up his courage and reminding himself that he is a warrior king and he’s not afraid of this new and interesting magic, he presses his finger into the liquid and stumbles as he finds himself suddenly somewhere else.

Everything is on fire. He doesn’t know where he is but everything is on fire. He feels the ever present burning beneath his glamours and sucks in a panicked breath, feels fear rising in his chest. When a warm hand clasps his own and squeezes tight, he turns swiftly and the breath gushes out of him.

“Bard.”

“I’m here, Thranduil. This is just a memory.” Bard answers, looking around them dispassionately, Thranduil realizes suddenly that everything around them is frozen in time. He forces himself to calm his heart and swallow down the fear.

“Where are we?”

“This is Lake Town.” Bard replies, before he sucks in a breath and suddenly time seems to start moving again. Thranduil takes a moment to take in their surroundings. “This is the memory of how I became a Dragonslayer. It still haunts my dreams every night.”

Thranduil finally notes that they’re not alone in this little wooden tower and he steps up beside the Bard who must belong to the memory, watches as he shoots arrow after arrow at the dragon, each shot would be true, if only the dragon’s scales weren’t so thick. The desperate and desolate fear on Past Bard’s face a stark contrast to the resignation on Present Bard’s.

Thranduil’s breath catches when the dragon flies far too close to the tower and Past Bard’s last arrow is spent. Then, suddenly Bain is there and Thranduil feels the fear rear up inside of him. He reminds himself that this is simply a memory, that Bain and Bard are both fine. They survived.

 _“Bain! Why didn’t you leave? You were supposed to leave_!” The terror in Past Bard’s voice is like an arrow to Thranduil’s own heart. The terror he’d felt when that foul orc had confirmed every single fear Thranduil had quietly been shoving aside for nigh on two thousand years. The fear he’d felt when riding into battle and he had no knowledge of his son’s whereabouts. The fear of a father for their son.

“I wanted to help!” Bain exclaims and Thranduil lets out a small laugh.

“Curse the Valar for helpful sons.” He mutters, hears Present Bard grunt in agreement, Thranduil glances towards him and finds the man only has eyes for his son. He turns back to Bain, watches the boy holding up a black arrow, the kind he remembers Girion used to favour. He’s never understood what’s so special about them, but now, knowing Bard’s secret, he assumes they’re magical.

He can’t help the yelp he gives when dragon’s claws and timber suddenly pass right through him. His hands scrabble at his chest and he has to calm his breathing.

“Nothing here can harm us.” Present Bard states, Thranduil nods and swallows thickly, watching as Past Bard pulls a shell-shocked Bain back up into the burning tower, now without a roof or railing.

“Your bow is broken.” Thranduil points out, idly. Reminding himself all over again that this is just a memory and even if it wasn’t, what good is he as he is now? No bow. No sword.

“Mhm, yes.” Present Bard answers, stepping up beside his past self, Thranduil sighs and steps on the other side, his head whipping towards a rumbling voice and he gets his first proper glimpse of Smaug the Golden, the Impenetrable. Past Bard it seems hadn’t noticed that his bow was broken, not until he rather needed it.

“What will you do now, _Bowman?”_ Smaug taunts and Thranduil wonders if that’s just a thing dragons learn in their eggs before they hatch. “You are forsaken, no help will come.” That, too, is apparently just something all dragons are born with. Thranduil watches as Bain discreetly waves about a small piece of wood, Thranduil looks to see what magic he is doing and huffs when he sees Bard’s bow quietly and subtly putting itself back together. “Is that your child? You cannot save him from the fire. He will _burn!_ ”

Thranduil’s breath catches for the thousandth time and he hates this. Hates it. Hates that this is everything that he’s ever feared. Every one of his worst nightmares facing his own dragon revolve around his son being there and now he’s watching this play out for Bard, who had to experience it in the first place. He hates it! But he won’t run from this memory. Not when Bard lived it, survived it, made his son survive it.

“Da!” Bain snaps and Past Bard looks down at his bow and Thranduil watches a genuine smirk pull at his lips. Thranduil watches Past Bard knock the arrow, sees the magic swirling around both the bow and the arrow and turns to watch the gaping maw of the dragon getting closer and closer, until he hears the familiar sound of an arrow being loosed. Watches the black arrow seem to halt in mid air for a moment, where it spins rapidly before shooting off and finding its home in the break in Smaug’s scales, right over the old serpent’s heart.

It is a shot even Thranduil is not certain he could make.

“How did you do that?” he exclaims, turning to face Present Bard, as Smaug crashes into the Lake.

“Modified banishment charm.” Present Bard answers, sounding reasonably satisfied for the feat he completed. “My father’s work. Once fired, it halts to acquire your chosen target, then spins to build up momentum and magic and then shoots off. Used correctly, the Black Arrow never misses.” He explains, as the tower starts to collapse beneath their feet and with a jolt, Thranduil finds himself sitting on his bed, the little bowl sitting innocently between him and Bard.

“You and your son are stupidly brave and so stupidly lucky!” he hisses at his lover, who just laughs, the sound a little desperate.

“Trust me, I know it.” Bard replies, reaching forward to rub his fingers over the runes on the outside of the little bowl and Thranduil watches as the glowing strand of memory separates from the liquid and Bard catches it on the tip of his wand, before flicking it without care away from them. Thranduil watches as the strand dissolves into nothing. “Some people save copies of their memories and store them in glass jars or in the Reflectors themselves, but that’s just asking for someone to learn all your secrets. I destroy all copies of my memories when I’m done viewing them.”

“Prudent.” Thranduil acknowledges with a nod, then he considers the bowl again and frowns. “How do you make a copy of your memories?” he asks, looking up at his lover. Bard sighs and grips his wand, gently pressing the tip to Thranduil’s right temple.

“Right. Think of the memory you want and nothing else, just bring it to your mind.” Bard says, Thranduil closes his eyes and does so, nodding to Bard when he has it. “Now, imagine pushing that memory out beyond yourself, like you were going to share it with someone. The memory remains in your mind, but someone else can see it, too.” Thranduil follows Bard’s instructions, carefully imagining projecting the memory outwards from himself. “Open your eyes.” He obeys, sees Bard gently lowering another little glowing strand into the silvery liquid. Bard runs his hands over the runes around the bowl and hums appreciatively. “A perfect copy, almost free of bias. That’s more than excellent for a first try.”

“Free of bias?” Thranduil queries, even as he preens under the compliment.

“Sometimes our own beliefs and feelings can influence our memories. The purpose of the Reflector is to allow us to _reflect_ on our memories as a true retelling of an event, so the Reflector also shows us how much bias we might have unconsciously put into the memory itself.” His lover answers, smirking. “No one ever pulls a memory that’s completely free of bias, in fact, I’d be concerned if someone did.”

“Good to know.” Thranduil murmurs, watching the memory strand swirling in the silvery liquid. “So, if I want out of the memory, I just need to will it?” he asks, finds it kind of funny that he’s afraid of something he’s already lived through, but then, he barely lived through it the first time and he’s been reliving it in his mind for thousands of years whether he wants to or not. Perhaps having some control over that will help?

“Is that your way of saying this memory is… not a good one?”

“That would be an understatement. I don’t know if anyone has said it in your hearing, since most of my people got over such long before you were even born, but there are two Dragonslaying kings in this room at present.” He answers, watches Bard’s jaw drop open and he has to swallow thickly when Bard’s shock turns to concern.

“If you’d rather view the memory alone-“

“No!” Thranduil exclaims, then forces himself to calm, breathing deeply. “No, I’d prefer you to be there with me, to remind me it’s just a memory. I wasn’t as lucky as you, Bard.” He sighs and shakes his head. “You said you wanted to see what was beneath by glamours.”

“Oh, Thran.” Bard breathes, but he doesn’t shy away and when he indicates the bowl, they both dip their fingers in together.

The memory forms around them, he’s surprised that he can smell, can _taste_ the death and decay and ashes from the battlefield around them, the battlefield he hasn’t stood on in well over a thousand years. Bard’s memory hadn’t had any sensory input other than sight and sound, but then, this is his memory, not Bard’s, so of course he’d remember what it was like to truly, genuinely be there in person.

He looks around them, tries to determine where in the memory they’ve been placed and comes face to face with his beloved wife. His breath catches and he stares at her, frozen in time as she is. He reaches out a trembling hand to caress her face, but his fingers pass right through her, he remembers Smaug and the tower doing the same thing and a sob hitches in his throat. He hadn’t expected how much it would hurt to have her standing here before him, but be unable to touch her, to talk to her.

He feels Bard’s hand slip into his other hand and he forces himself to pull his gaze away from his wife, to look instead into Bard’s concerned eyes.

“This is the last memory I have of her.” Thranduil breathes, pulling his hand back like he’s been stung, no. Like he’s been burnt. “Lalaithiel, my treasured queen.”

“She’s beautiful and fierce.” Bard murmurs beside him, the both of them staring at Lalaithiel, frozen as she is, in the midst of battle. Her silver hair braided and piled on top of her head so it cannot be used as a weapon against her. Her white armour shining in the light, her swords held steady and firm in her practiced hands. The expression frozen on her face is determined and frustrated and excited all in one, she’d loved battle. Loved being able to show off her skills, but she’d hated it, too. Hated that it was necessary. Why was it always necessary? Why hasn’t it stopped being so? “She’s like a Valkyrie.” Bard’s voice jolts him and he swallows a lump he hadn’t realized had formed in his throat.

“A Valkyrie?” He asks, stumbling a little over the unfamiliar word.

“They were the female warriors of one of the Wizard Kings in the First Age, Woden. It’s said the Valkyrie were his fiercest warriors, and when the time came for him to take a wife, he was the one claimed, instead. Chosen by the Lady Frigg, She Who Triumphs, the leader of the Valkyrie and his equal in all things.” Bard explains, sighing wistfully, the description, Thranduil thinks, is very apt for his wife. “Sigrid has decided she wants to recreate the Valkyrie, since her mother descends from Frigg and Woden via their son Baldur.”

“A Dragonslayer for a son and a warrior queen for a daughter. My, your children are setting their sights very high, indeed.” Thranduil answers, letting a smile tug reluctantly at his lips. He wishes all of their children would choose less heart wrenching pursuits, though he already knows little Tilda has set her heart on becoming a healer. He looks at his beloved wife again and sighs, if she’d chosen to pursue a safer path, perhaps she’d still be here, but he doubts she’d have married him, after all, they met on the battlefield, and it was her deadly skill that had first caught his eye. No, she wouldn’t have been the woman he loved if she’d not been a warrior. “I suppose we should watch the memory, shouldn’t we?” he finally says, forcing himself to look away.

“The Reflector is intended to help us come to terms with the past, to study it, learn what we can from it, but ultimately, to help us let it go. If you aren’t ready for that, we don’t have to see the memory. We could go back and you could pick a different one.” Bard answers, squeezing his hand and Thranduil honestly wonders what he did to deserve his beautiful Lalaithiel and his darling Bard. Both of them are far more than he thinks he’s ever been worthy of.

“No.” He answers, the decision coming to him easily, for all that he does want to flee. “I’ve never been a coward.” He says, deliberately refuses to think of how the dwarves view him, the insults they still hurl at him, even if some of them have figured out tact. There is a difference between being a coward and having a working sense of self-preservation. Additionally, there’s something called taking responsibility for the lives of the people who might be impacted by your own actions. The First Age was a _very_ effective teaching tool. That reminds him that he should probably send Celeborn a letter, letting one of his only three living kin know that he’s also still among their number…

He sighs and turns from Lalaithiel, finds his past self not too far away from her and he all but drags Bard along with him to stand beside his younger self. He laughs at the blatant arousal in Bard’s eyes.

“What? You look _good_ in armour!” Bard defends, though there’s a grin on his face. “You look better out of the armour, and everything else, too, but a peasant can’t be picky when a king condescends to look at them.” His lover says, still eyeing his younger self.

“You aren’t a peasant.” Thranduil points out with an amused sigh as he regards his younger self, the smile immediately falling from his lips. Unlike Bard, there's nothing for him to praise. The white armour that they’d had to cut from his skin. The silver swords that had all but melted in his hands. The circlet that had thankfully, or unthankfully, broken or been lost before the unbearable heat had come, that would have likely fused to him the way his armour had if it had still been there. He wouldn’t have survived that. “Right, then.” He says, his voice strangled in his throat. “Let’s do this.”

“Just think about letting the memory flow, letting it do as it wishes.” Bard gently coaxes, so Thranduil does as told and suddenly the sound of battle is filling his ears and his younger self launches into motion.

It’s odd, watching himself fight. Now that he can see himself, he can see all the flaws in his movements that he hadn’t even realized existed and, honestly, he wants to scream at himself. He’s a master swordsman, no one could ever deny that, but there is always room for improvement and now he sees where the improvement is needed. When he looks at Bard, his beloved is so clearly mesmerized and, realistically, Thranduil can understand why, his eye has been turned by warriors in the past, but part of him still can’t see why Bard is so fascinated by _him._

His younger self dispatches a pair of the countless orcs that were foolish enough to face him that day, then spins to check on Lalaithiel. Thranduil had, well, he’d genuinely forgotten they both used to do that. Used to take time out of the battle to check for the other, assure themselves that the other was well, before turning back to the fight. He still does it with Legolas, whenever they’re in the same battle together.

There’s something ineffably heart-breaking about being an observer to a battle that he’s already lived. Seeing his friends falling around him and knowing that even if he could affect this battle, it wouldn’t matter, they’re already dead, have been dead for longer than all of the humans and dwarves and hobbits that now walk their land have lived. Seeing his friends all fall and knowing that even if he could affect this battle, he wouldn’t, because somehow their ends would still come about, such is the way of fate.

He wishes with all that he is that he could truly go back, go back and save his wife, save his father, save Nimloth, save Lúthien, save Thingol. But even if he could go back, he wouldn’t, because fate doesn’t need his help and certainly wouldn’t appreciate his meddling and it has already been shown to him what happens when one tries to meddle in matters that are beyond them. The First Age truly had been a good teacher.

The roar, when it comes, still sends terror through him and he freezes, even as he sees his younger self doing the same thing. Bard’s hand in his own is the only thing that convinces him to start breathing again. He watches as Lalaithiel suddenly appears behind his younger self, back to back as they continue fighting the seemingly endless swarm of orcs.

“I thought you said the Great Serpents were destroyed?” Lalaithiel asks, even as the pair’s swords cut and slash and they twirl and spin and move about the other as if they were just extensions of each other.

“Well, apparently there’s still things I need to learn.” His younger self answers, a teasing smile on his lips. But he’d been so stupid that day. “Turns out, I don’t know everything; can you rub that in later? I’m a little preoccupied at the moment.”

“Oh? What with?” his darling wife retorts and beside him, Bard laughs, Thranduil glances at his human lover and finds Bard looking at Lalaithiel with fond eyes. Thranduil doesn’t quite know what to do with that.

“Well, for starters, there’s apparently a dragon on the field, darling.” Young Thranduil points out, laughing even as he takes the head off yet another orc. “Also, speaking of, perhaps you haven’t figured out that we’re in the middle of a battle?“

“Haha, very funny. Glorfindel’s in this mess somewhere, isn’t he? Let him deal with the dragon.” Lalaithiel decides, with a haughty little sniff. “He’s better qualified for it than either of us, so let’s not even worry about the Serpent, shall we?”

“Last time he dealt with a creature of fire, he _died_ , meleth!” Young Thranduil exclaims, but he’s still smiling. Doesn’t know the horror that is to come.

“Did Lord Glorfindel _actually_ die? I always just assumed that was some myth.” Bard asks beside him, Thranduil snorts and shakes his head.

“No. He most _definitely_ died. Went to the Halls of Mandos and everything.” Thranduil confirms, unable to take his eyes from the pair of elves before him. This whole thing is horrific to him, it’s like seeing Doriath fall in slow motion. Someone, somewhere, should have seen this coming. Should have put the pieces together to make the puzzle sooner, but no one did.

The ground shakes as another terrible roar rents the air. Thranduil hates that sound, will forever hate it. He watches as his younger self and Lalaithiel are slowly but surely separated within the heat of the battle. Then, there’s a great plume of fire and the screams that sound are still so horrific, they still sound in his nightmares. One voice, though, screaming amongst all the others wrenches his heart.

He turns to the flaming swath of battlefield, his movements in step with his younger self as they watch Lalaithiel engulfed in the flames. His younger self is screaming, but he doesn’t have the energy for that anymore, doesn’t have the strength for it. He long ago lost the ability to work up the strength needed to push through from emotionally numb to emotionally devastated _and_ angry about it. Bard though, well, having just come from Bard’s own desperate battle with a dragon, he doesn’t blame his lover for gripping so tightly to his hand.

They never find her body, among the blackened and charred out corpses. Not enough left of her, of her armour, of her weapons to identify her. So, she never has a grave, at least, not one that he can find. He could stand over her grave and he wouldn’t even know it.

He watches dispassionately as his younger self, now, he realizes, somehow sans circlet, he never does remember what happened to it, rallies the elves around them to bring the dragon down. The dragon’s scales are all but impervious, yes, but their wings though, are not. Pierce enough holes in those delicate membranes and the dragon is grounded.

The Great Serpent falls to the ground in a shattering crash that sends shocks rippling through the earth beneath their feet.

“That beast is huge!” Bard exclaims, Thranduil sighs and nods his head for this dragon is at least twice the size of Smaug, Thranduil genuinely wonders how old Smaug had been.

“He is a Great Serpent of the First Age. They were all giant like this.” Thranduil answers, pulling Bard forward to stand to the side of the dragon. The pair of them watching as his younger self advances, he wasn’t watching when his younger self manged to scavenge a shield from somewhere. It won’t do him much good. Well, that’s not true, he mentally corrects himself. The shield is probably the only reason he survived.

“Are you going to do what I think you’re going to do?” Bard asks, his voice higher than Thranduil has ever heard it.

“March up to a dragon and fight it head on?” Thranduil queries, sounding oddly amused even to his own ears. He feels detached, for all that he’s still so terrified of this memory, he no longer feels the need to run screaming into the hills and he doesn’t understand why.

“Yes.”

“I don’t know what answer you want me to give.” He replies, watching as his younger self does just as he said. “But I’m sure you’ve gotten your answer, either way.”

“You aren’t a coward, but you’re a fucking reckless shit!” Bard hisses at him, his hand squeezing so tight to Thranduil’s own that for the first time ever, Thranduil is concerned that Bard might break his bones.

“Says the man who faced down a dragon with one single arrow.” He replies, sniffing and raising his nose in the air. Bard snorts beside him, before cursing and turning his attention back to Young Thranduil and the dragon.

Young Thranduil does a surprisingly good job of dodging the Dragonfire, actually. The dragon is obviously taunting him, but his younger self is far too lost in grief and rage to pay any heed to that. The dragon underestimates the foe he’s facing and Young Thranduil is just too broken to care.

“You’re mad!” Bard declares, his voice shaking, Thranduil hums in reply, but doesn’t comment. They both watch as Young Thranduil manages to stab the dragon’s long neck when it gets too close. The sword sticks and the elf hisses, pulling his hand back. They both stare as the dragon rears back, fire licking from its jaws, the stuck sword turning into molten metal and dripping away. Young Thranduil simply draws the sword he’d sheathed to wield the shield and continues forwards. “Really, absolutely, totally, completely _mad_!”

“Do you hear me arguing with you?” Thranduil queries, because really, there’s no other explanation for what he did than that he was mad, and he _was_. Mad with grief and rage and so much pain he thought he was going to choke on it, but he’d been wrong, that choking pain came later.

They watch as the dragon’s head comes back down, intent on devouring Young Thranduil, but this had been the extent of Young Thranduil’s non-plan. The moment the dragon is close enough, Young Thranduil ducks behind his shield and slams his sword up, it wrenches through the dragon’s upper jaw and punctures out through its eyeball. This time, Young Thranduil doesn’t let go of the sword, not even when it starts to melt in his hand as a last blast of fire shoots from the dragon’s mouth.

When the dragon rears backwards, Young Thranduil lets go of the sword and falls away, shrieking in agony and terror as flames lick up his arm, engulfing the entire left side of his body and the hair on his head as he throws himself to the earth. Elder Thranduil can’t look away, even as his mouth has gone dry and he finds his breath freezing in his chest. Absently, he notes that Bard is clinging to him with both of his hands now, his other one digging into the flesh at Thranduil’s wrist.

Silently, they watch as elves rush forward to douse the flames, Young Thranduil screaming and crying like he’s dying the whole time. The elves screaming for Lord Elrond, even as Lord Glorfindel appears in all his shiny glory. The famed Balrogslayer drops to his knees at Young Thranduil’s side, the king’s good hand scrabbling in the dirt, as his whole body convulses in unspeakable agony. The Lord of the Golden Flower rests his hand over Young Thranduil’s forehead and commands him to sleep. All too suddenly, the screaming stops, but the convulsions don’t.

The memory ends with Lord Glorfindel lifting Young Thranduil up and carrying him away.

Finding himself back on his own bed in the present is jarring and he has to take a moment to settle his heart before he raises his eyes to Bard. His human lover is looking at him intently, there is a question on his face that he apparently won’t ask, so Thranduil sighs and lets his glamours fall away from him like water. Bard doesn’t flinch away, doesn’t react with disgust, doesn’t exclaim in surprise, his eyes just turn so sad, but not, Thranduil realizes with surprise, pitying.

“You’re still absolutely barking mad!” Bard hisses, Thranduil laughs and _doesn’t_ flinch when Bard reaches out a hand towards him, though he doesn’t touch. “Can I-?” Thranduil gives a jerking nod and forces himself to stay still as Bard’s fingers gently run over the scar. “You should be dead.”

“I’m aware.”

“I understand why you hide it, but you don’t have to hide it from me.” Bard tells him, voice so gentle. Thranduil is genuinely surprised at the tears that burn in his eyes, he can count on one hand those who don’t recoil in horror from his scar, now here’s Bard, telling him he doesn’t even have to hide it. Not even the others had been so fine with his scar the first time they’d seen it. Even he had recoiled. “You’re beautiful, scars and all.”

“It’s hideous.” Thranduil whispers, his voice cracking.

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, my beloved, and to me, you are beautiful. _Not_ in spite of the scar, but because of it. Because you are beautiful inside and out, your sorrows and your joys are what have shaped you, Thranduil.” As he’s speaking, Bard gently moves the Reflector from the bed between them, putting it down on the bedside table, before gently coaxing Thranduil into lying down on the bed. “I love _all_ of you, your faults and your achievements, your scars and your charms, your immense intellect and your occasionally too sharp tongue. Your stupidly pretty hair and your dependence on your too-strong wine. Your illegally beautiful eyes and your intricate little masks.” Each point is made with a gentle kiss against scarred skin and Thranduil doesn’t honestly realize he’s crying until Bard’s gentle hands are brushing away his tears. “You are the sum of all of your parts, Thranduil, the good and the bad and I love them all.”

“Bard!” he exclaims, as he’s suddenly forced to truly face a thousand-year-old hurt for the first time. No longer able, or even willing, to push it down, shove it down, stomp it down. He feels his heart swelling so painfully in his chest and he thinks it might actually burst. The sounds coming out of his mouth are not elvish or human and he doesn’t know how to stop them. He doesn’t know how to stop the tears that are burning his eyes, either.

“Shh, love, you’re alright.” Bard’s a steady, warm comfort against him and he curls into it. He wants to scream, but he’s so, so tired and hurt and he doesn’t have the strength. So, he clenches his hands in Bard’s shirt and he cries instead. Cries and sobs and wails like a child, the way he hasn’t done in so long that he can’t remember the last time, until eventually all his strength leaves him and he sinks heavily into the mattress beneath him, utterly spent. All the while, he hears Bard whispering sweet-nothings to him.

 _‘The Reflector is intended to help us come to terms with the past, to study it, learn what we can from it, but ultimately, to help us let it go.’_ Bard’s words sound in his mind and he lets out a small snort.

 _I’m letting it go._ He thinks, sucking in a tired breath. _All of the shame, all of the guilt. I’m letting it all go._

That’s the thought that carries him into Irmo’s Realm.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm pretty sure there'll be more for this specific fic, I just am figuring out how to write it... but for now, this one is finished.


End file.
